A hypothetical situation

Disclaimer: Before I start this I need specify that this is in no way a commentary on race or ethnicity. This is merely an attempt at entertainment based on a situation my friend presented to me. Mexicans are hard working people who can achieve success in every aspect of the world that they wish to pursue, and the one's used in this argument are not a stereotype, but an illustration of the type of person needed to complete an equation. This is not a generalization. With that said...

My buddy RT sent me this message today:

"I wanna get drunker than 10 Mexicans on payday!"

I thought about this for a little bit before I decided that such a question is one that needs to be answered thoroughly. I mean, what exactly would it take to get ten Mexicans drunk on payday? Now before we get into what is needed, one should consider the factors and variables in such an equation.

First, for the purpose of dramatic effect, I am assuming these Mexicans are migrant workers. The question of legality is not of our concern here. The main issue is whether or not they have just put in a sixty hour work week doing things that only those of us fortunate enough to have the luxury of being lazy wouldn't dream of doing (i.e. working on a roof or a house). Now, for the purpose of controlling my variables, I am going reject those who work in the lawn care field of expertise. Why? Because I think if you can send your ten-year-old son out to do the same job with the same results, it is not a "field of expertise." Let's be honest, by a show of hands, who here hasn't mowed a lawn at least once? Exactly. Now raise your hands again if you have built a house or thatched a roof? Only a few, eh? Thought so. Furthermore, who here would send their ten-year-old son to build a house? None. I thought s...Luke, put your hand down. The point is, mowing a lawn takes about the same amount of skill as blowing your nose does. Sure you can do both different ways (both nostrils at once or, the more powerful, one-at-a-time approach), but neither require that much skill and focus mostly on getting the job done without making too much of a mess.

Along the lines of the hypothetical Mexican we are using, I think we need to mention that I am not referring to foremen on job sites, but the hard working, don't-speak-a-lick-of-English Mexicans that go home looking dirtier than Arnold Schwarzenegger at the end of Predator. I am assuming that these hypothetical Mexicans drink everyday. What grounds to I have for this assumption? None. Call it a hunch. I mean, I think I would drink every night if I spent the entire day hammering shingles on a roof with a heavy tool belt hanging off my waist like a baby kangaroo. Wouldn't you? Also, we must remember that this is payday. And I am talking "straight-to-the-check-cashing-joint" payday. There is no room for wives, girlfriends, or strippers. Straight-up single dudes only who want nothing more than to get trashed and end the night falling asleep head first on the steering wheel of their car. That's the kind of guy I am looking for here.

Now that we have our unknowns, I think we should define our variables. Obviously, we need to consider a number of factors such as type of alcohol, period of time, and number if unexpected friends, relatives, dogs, or random others who show up to participate in the night's events. For the sake of the argument I have made this number known and given it a value of four. I did this because I think it is reasonable to assume that at least two brothers, a cousin, and a friend will show up to get drunk along with the others. Undoubtedly, these four will not have bought any beer, "mooching" off the others. Luckily, they have been accounted for in this equation because anyone who has thrown a party knows that this always happens. Consequently, these four will be required by drinking rules to lose at least five of the first hands of poker they play during the night.

Looking at this mathematically,I have defined the variables and spelled out the equation below to help solve our problem.

Number of unexpected persons/things participating = (y) > 4
Amount of time = (t) = All freaking night
Alcohol type = (b) = Both beer and liquor, naturally

And of course,

Amount of alcohol needed to get 10 Mexicans drunk = (g)

Giving us this:

(((10 Hypothetical Mexicans)^payday) + 4) ((t x b)^rounds of shots) = g

After creating this equation, I decided that I needed to go to an expert on this to solve the formula. I needed someone who knows the ins and outs of both mathematics, formulas, and the general consumption of alcoholic beverages. As it happens, I know just the person. My buddy Reed not only is an engineer, but he also works at a liquor store. I ran the question by him and he did some work in his head. After a minute he had his results, "Hmmm, you're looking at eight or nine packs of Natty Light, three or four tall boys of Tecate, and half a pint of Seagrams Gin. That ought to do it. Wait, throw in a six pack of Coors Light. You wanted to get drunker than the ten Mexicans. Glad I could help, dude."

So what does all of this mean? It means that I wasted three hours of my life writing this and creating a worthless equation.On the other hand, Ryan if you are reading this you have our grocery list for the night. See you at six, dude!

T - C - You Suck: So what do SMU and BYU have in common? They both have ruined TCU's BCS hopes. I think a team that is supposed to be legit should get itself in order the next time they start toting BCS hopes. Moving on...

Drew's Date: Drew had a date last night where he planned to go out for root beer floats. I suggested that he then take her to the sock-hop, while Pat thought dancing to the jukebox might be a good idea. RT had this to say about it:

"10 bucks says he finished the night with a real zinger and ended up drinking the root beer float by himself. He then probably proceeded to get wasted and go back over to the girl's place where the real magic happened. He's an idiot."

No word on what actually happened, but I think its safe to say that if Drew wore a leather jacket and tight white t-shirt, there is no way any woman could resist his 1950's charm. Of course, this is the same guy who once fell asleep in a stairwell.

And the award for the most random and least informative text message: My roommate sent this to me as he was on his way to New Orleans for the Tulane game:

"For our food stop I decided to walk to Wendy's, and it was on fire."

Knowing Chad he most likely went in anyways. He's the kind of guy who would walk up to the counter as all the employees were running about in a panic and wait for someone to take his order for some chicken nuggets. Than he would add a, "oh, yeah and you're roof is on fire. In case you didn't know." He would then walk off happy about his purchase and think nothing of it for the rest of the day. Sometimes he is that odd.

More Drew: During last weekend's Pats-Broncos game, a Viagra commercial came on with a guy and his very attractive wife featured in the add. Drew looks up and says, "I don't understand it. How could you not be turned on with a wife that looked that hot? I mean how could you not be turned on?" Me and Patrick quickly exchanged glances if if to ask "is he serious?" We then explained the basics of impotence and how its not that your are not turned on, but its that...well, you can't keep any steam in the engine. Drew was quiet for a moment before he said something along the lines of, "that can happen?"

Sometimes I think Drew is just a figment of my imagination; a trick my mind is playing on me to make me feel smarter than I really am. Is it possible that he could have not known this? Regardless, I couldn't help but be disapointed that by telling him the truth about Viarga, me and Pat ruined a future scenario of Drew suffering from impotence and matter-of-factly telling his wife, "Well, I guess you just don't do it for me anymore. See ya!" I would pay to see that.

Pat, a working man: Let me be the first to congratulate Pat on his job as a teacher. He starts Monday. Those kids are doomed.

Have a good weekend.

Somewhere in Philiadelphia they are cheering

Dallas Police report that Terrell Owens attempted suicide last night. I am not going to make any comments about this, but you can read the ever developing story on ESPN right here.

In other news, things look a bit better in Maverick land where the little Mavs ink the Big German for three years at 60 million. Achtung!

S - M - Who?

Maybe you haven't noticed, and judging from the attendance you haven't, but the SMU Mustangs have put together quite a little season. Aside from being trounced by Texas Tech and an embarrassing loss to North Texas, the Ponies have combined for over 100 points in their last two games, and quarterback Justin Willis has already thrown for ten touchdowns this season (I just stared at that sentence for about five minutes, and it still doesn't look right). Really? SMU is in the top half of offense and defenses in the nation? How is this possible? Going into the season, I would have seen this being about as likely as me starting off my fantasy football season 0-3. Oh, wait...I am 0-3.

(By the way, there is nothing worse than talking an insurmountable amount of trash going into a fantasy football season, having a mediocre draft and then proceeding to lose your first three games. Now I am picking up scraps on the waiver wire hoping the guys like Chris Henry can produce all season, and regretting the fact that Daunte Culpepper is throwing to my wide receiver and tight end. Damn, you. In fact, this might lead you to do something drastic like put your entire team on the trading block, and call your girlfriend to tell her that neither of you are eating for the next month or so. Not...that I...ugh...did either of these.)

Another mind blowing stat is that QB Justin Willis is the fifth rated passer in the NCAA. No, you read that correctly, SMU quarterback Justin Willis is the fifth rated passer in the NC freaking AA. Did anyone see this coming? Is there any reasonable explanation for this? I mean did God spill a Coke on the machine he punches in his college football scores on causing the SMU offense to explode? If this is the case does it explain Notre Dame's struggles? I need answers.

Regardless, I am sports-giddy about the whole thing. Add to this, that the H-Man hooked us up with a catered luxury box and we are rolling. The best part about the box, other than the free food and being able to annoy the real old alumni, is that last week Drew passed out in chair in the back of the box, and also the fact that we could see our buddy RT in the front row of the student section leading cheers along with his former cheerleading brethren. Just silly.

Anyways, in the name of college football I have the folowing for you. One is my buddy Conway. The other is Notre Dame coach Charlie Weiss. Which is which? You be the judge.





















And it only gets more confusing when you add this...

















Honestly, I just don't know what to think.

Fun with elevators

Sorry folks, work is busy and will be for the rest of the month, plus I have been working on the Two Point Conversion (so check that out) with Luke, and in the words of Kevan Barlow "He's like working with Hitler," but I will get back to regular and better columns soon.

And here we go...

Early this morning I was at work, catching up on some stuff from last week. Finding myself a little parched, I went down to the deli that is on the first floor of the building. Now, usually the nice people of Murphy's Deli are great with their service, that is, if by great service you mean lots of yelling, mediocre food, and the always greater than zero chance that they are out of what you want, but I eat there anyways because I basically have no other options unless I want to walk across the street, and laziness prevents that from happening. So I go in for my typical Full Throttle energy drink and some sort of egg and cheese-based breakfast that will undoubtedly come back to haunt me in 25 years. Something was different though. Not about the deli, but about me. I wanted something new. I wanted a Powerade.

Wait, wait, wait. Don't start preaching me on the wretchedness of Powerade and the greatness of Gatorade. Fear not because I am with you folks. Powerade is terrible, but it was my only option at the deli; and the deli is my only option for food so I had no choice (remember we covered this: I am too lazy to do anything else). So I was stuck with Powerade. Well that's a lie. I had a choice: Lemon-lime or fruit punch? I went with the always tasty Lemon-lime, you would have too.

(What is it about Lemon-lime that everyone likes? I mean it's not my favorite flavor in the world, but it seems that everyone on Earth drinks lemon-lime sports drinks over anyother flavor. Is this only in America or do they prefer orange in China? Does anyone know the answer to this? I need to know these things.

Also, I don't know one person who's favorite flavor is lemon-lime, yet we all go nuts for this stuff. I can't think of one other thing that works this way with the possible exception of Tom Cruise movies. We will never learn with those, will we?)

Anyways, I take my lemon lime Powerade and drink down a good portion of it fulfilling my thirst, and head back towards the elevators to return to work. I attempt another swig as I climb on, but somehow misjudged the distance from the open end of the bottle to my mouth, and shorted the attempt by about three full inches. Like a waterfall of electrolytes, it spilled down onto my shiny work clothes. Crap. I decided to survey the damage. Miraculously, my shirt was untouched. Unfortunately my pants had a nice little wet mark running down the front of them. Oh well, at least my pants are dark, so no one will be able to see a stain.

Moving on with my life, I lean back against the wall of the elevator and hold my nearly empty Powerade behind my back, inadvertently hiding it from view. Don't ask why I am telling you this. Just trust me, this is important.

Shortly before the doors close, two women and a man step on the elevator. I noticed their horrified looks, but really didn't think anything of it. I mean come on, how can I worry about them when my pants are wet and I have...oh crap...I realized what they are horrified about. They walked on the elevator to see a guy staring at a trickling wet mark down the front of his pants and no bottle in sight for a visual explanation. What was worse was that I then saw the small yellow puddles on the floor by my feet made by the Powerade. Great. So here I am looking like a complete fool, stumbling for something to say, while they look at each other nodding back at me ever so slightly with a "Oh my God, don't look now, but I think that dude just pissed himself like five seconds ago" look on their faces.

I frantically wondered if its socially acceptable to explain this to them right there, or if I just have to take the bullet on this one? I said to hell with it a made an attempt. Time, unfortunately was not on my side. As I raised the Powerade to show that I did, indeed, have control of my bladder the elevator opened and they walked away.

And yes, they were giggling.

Did they know that I didn't really wet myself at work? Hopefully, but it still sucks. Anyways, I blame the entire thing on Powerade, this would have never happened with Gatorade. Never.

GMJ: I know this is late, but Gary Matthews, Jr. hit for the cycle last week. Not just the cycle, but the "natural cycle." No, no, no. Not that "natural cycle," we're talking baseball here. GMJ hit a single, double, triple, and home run in that order. That's incredible. The list of players who have hit for the cycle is short, but the list of players who have hit for the natural cycle is even shorter. Hats off to GMJ.

While we are talking about him, I think its imperative for the Rangers to re-sign Matthews after this season. And I'm not talking "Hey we are astronauts and we just lost two bolts that hold this damn shuttle together, but lets try to land this thing anyways" imperative. I'm talking "hey we are astronauts and we just lost two bolts, so you better come pick us the fuck up!" imperative. The Rangers always need two things, pitching and a centerfielder. As most of us have seen from his personal highlight show called, SportsCenter, the Rangers have centerfield covered with Matthews. And yet, I somehow feel they will screw this up.

Drew: I know its been awhile since I mentioned Drew, but I think it would be uncouth if I didn't mention that he passed out in the bed of our buddy Joel's truck after watching SMU thrash SHSU 42-7. Well, I'm not sure he watched all the game, but he was certainly there for it. I think he stopped paying attention to what was going on after I took his thunderstix away from him. I think I was more than justified though; he was prodding me in the face with them and yelling at me to get up and cheer. It was halftime.

Well, little Drew fell asleep and unknowingly posed for some great pictures with us all, before Luke decided that it would be a great idea to move Drew from Joel's truck to someone else's. Didn't matter whom, just someone else's truck. Gold. We rushed put there, picked him up, and carried him to the back end of the parking lot where we laid him down in a black truck whose owner was unknown to us.

About fifteen minutes later we found out that it was the security guard's truck, and were forced to move him to another truck. Drew slurred some words and laid down. Then without warning, he jumped up and ran into Pluckers to get some wings. Drew, I will never understand you.

Mailing it in.

My buddy Reed, who lives in Lubbock and goes to Texas Tech (shout out!), has a house in the middle of town. Until recently, this domicile housed a strange collection of furniture from his family, friends, acquaintances, neighbors, teachers, pets, the guy from the gas station, the guy from Foot Locker, and pretty much every other human being who has walked the face of the Earth. When staying at Reed's place you could find yourself on any number of combinations ranging of pillows, couches, futons, chairs, the concrete (Daniel!) or my personal favorite, the giant beanbag known as the "Love Sac."

Now many, if not all...in fact, yes, all of my cherished nights spent on the varying arrays of comfortable, nightly rest harbors involved some endeavor of alcohol. These ranged from the night I said to an absolute stranger, "Alcohol makes us friends," only minutes before she threw up all of our said friendship onto me and Reed's laps, to the times that I spent a good fifteen minutes explaining the intricate physics of the fusion that occurs in the Sun only to find I had been arguing with myself. Either way, this graveyard of furniture had seen some fun times, and consequently; some inexplicable tares, stains, and busted parts. I mean this looked worse than the bone yard where the hyenas lived in The Lion King. No joke.

So what am I getting at? The running diary I wrote two weeks ago left me feeling like every piece of furniture in that place, worn the hell out. Unlike those couches, though, I do not have any unexplainable stains on me that leave people uneasy when they are around. On the other hand, I have had no desire to write since then. I realize I have lagged here and on the TPC with Luke, but we promise you gold so stick with it. Just trust us, we are working on it as you read these very words. So sit back, close your eyes, and wait for us to slap you across the face with the billy club of truth, sports, and comedy. Good times await you.

Viddy

Rocky Mountain High, Part II

This is part II of a running diary of my trip to Colorado. To read part I click here! Otherwise, read ahead and know that this entire project was originally hand written on fifteen sheets of Steno Pad paper. I spoil you.

FRIDAY NIGHT
9:00 p.m.: We get checked into the hotel and got situated with our friend Rick before we go out to a local bar to grab some food and a few brews.

9:10 p.m.: I think it's worth mentioning that on the way to Czech place for food I passed my personal Mecca, Invesco Field at Mile High. I can't hold it in anymore, GO BRONCOS!(while doing the Mile High Salute). Now I'm better.

9:15 p.m.: We pass by a small place called the It'll Do Lounge. The best part about this place is that the logo on the outside is two frothy beer mugs cheersing each other. There is something about a place that makes absolutley no bones about what its all about that makes you want to stand up and give them an applause. Can we make this apply to other things as well? Like can we make places in Uptown Dallas change their names to show what they really are, or would there be too many places called, "Pretentious, swanky place that charges far too much for a beer, and forget about ordering a mixed drink because you can't afford it unless you sell the naming rights to your children, and oh yeah, every sleazy guy in here is going to hit on your girlfriend while you stand helplessly at the bar?" Can we get this done, or is that too much to ask?

(I didn't have a good place to put this, so I am writing it here. While were in the car, we actually got on to the subject of "How exactly is Hawaii considered a state when it is closer to Japan then it is to the United States?" My thoughts on the matter: Hawaii should be an autonomous nation/state that self-governs under either the protection of United States territorial laws, or under its own domestically created constitution in either a liberal democracy, such as ours; or as a constitutional monarchy that echoes back to the tribal kings and queens that superceded the colonial era. Statehood should not be granted as an infinite status. It should be subject to review when cleavages and factions form; thereby, allowing focused but less powerful interests, that constitute the majority of the islander's domestic constituencies rather than narrow corporate influences that determine policies, to hold more power on both a federal and domestic level. Thus allowing for the true population and constituencies to determine their own degree of sovereignty.)

(Take that all of you who said a degree in Political Science wouldn't amount to anything!)

Actually, I didn't use those words. I think I said something more along the lines of:

"Screw, Hawaii. Now that Pluto is no longer a planet nothing is safe. Loyalties mean nothing anymore. It's every state for themselves. To arms!"

Either way we all agreed that Hawaii is a nice place to visit.

9:45 p.m.: We eat at a Czech bar and grill. And by grill, I mean authentic Czech food. I've never had Czech food, and frankly, I am a bit scared. Oh well, I am open for anything.

After looking at the menu for a moment I can tell you that the difference between Czech food and German food is that they have different names.

9:50 p.m.: Sweet. Bratwurst.

10:00 p.m.: At the risk of sounding vain I have to note that there isn't one good looking person in this bar. I mean none. If I rated the looks of people I would have to give this place a solid two. I don't know if Dallas has spoiled me in this aspect, but aesthetically speaking I feel like I am trapped in a Jackson Pollack painting.

10:10 p.m.: The other three people go on a smoke break. I am left alone.

10:20 p.m.: Another smoke break. Alone again.

10:35 p.m.: Smoke break. This wall looks like it will be fun to stare at for the next seven minutes.

10:55 p.m.: Smoke break. (Singing) ...and maybe I'm too good for you, oh. Do you believe in life after love?...(after love, after love)...I can feel something inside me say, I really don't think your strong enough, oh...DAMMIT, CHER!

10:56 p.m.: I hate smoke breaks. All they do is make non-smokers have to wait and labor around while the rest of the people in the group stand outside and fraternize. What is the sense in this? How about we switch it up? The smokers should be the ones that are left alone. In fact, we should make them stand outside in the cold while everyone else is merry and warm by the comforting fires inside. Oh, and they don't get to take their jackets either. Only then will there be justice.

(Side Note: Pretty much all of my friends smoke, so I know that this entry will guarantee me at least three weeks of jokes at my expense that will likely be based upon me being a crying baby. I have dug my own grave. There is no justice in this world.)

11:30 p.m.: I would say I am a bit inebriated, but it’s hard to say inebriated when you’re drunk. Hey look, a show about dragons on the history channel. Dragons are cool.... (Sleep).

(I wish you could see the exact way I wrote this in my notebook. There is no order to my handwriting. In fact, it looked like more of a mix between print, cursive, and Chinese lettering than anything else. The best part was that it moved up and down on the paper like a Coney Island roller coaster. Also, I think that it should be noted that I clearly tried to spell inebriated five different ways and crossed them all out before deciding to write "Innerb-(drunk word)" and waiting until the morning to figure it out. I just think you should know these things.)

SATURDAY
7:30 a.m.: I distinctly remember being told that I had a wake-up call set for 8 am. So why is my sister knocking on my door and asking me if I am up? Lets find out. Here is how the conversation went:

Me: (Confused) Yes?
Erin: You didn't get your wake up call?
...(pause)...
Me: (Still confused) I thought it wasn't till eight?
Erin: Well yeah, but we changed it back to 7 after you went to bed.
...(pause)...
Me: (Even more confused) Is this a joke?
Erin: Brian, get ready. We have to leave in 15 minutes.
...(Erin walks back to her room)...
Me: (Wondering if this is a dream) I don't understand.

I am still trying to figure our the math and logic of this Phantom Wake-Up Call. I couldn't have been more confused about the entire thing.

10:00 a.m.: We are officially in the mountains now as we are on our way up to Leadville. There is something crazy about driving in the mountains that just captivates me and makes me stare out the window. Even since I was a little kid, I have never been able to sleep, read, or anything else in the car while driving through the mountains. It's odd. Kind of like the way a cat seems to lose all exterior focus when you dangle a little piece of string in front of it. It’s like that for me. You could be tell me that Britney Spears was being drug behind a Porsche driven by Kevin Federline and I would just nod and continue to stare out the window at the mountains.

Ok I lied. I would watch that.

10:55 a.m.: We just passed a small faux covered wagon that had was selling buffalo and elk jerky. My brother-in-law turned around to go back for some jerky so fast that I thought the change was going to fly out of my pockets. I mean I have never seen someone so set on getting jerky. Anyways, my favorite part of the whole ordeal was the quick exchange we had as we turned around:

Me: Damn, I don't have any cash.
Scott: Luckily I keep cash around for just this occasion, gourmet buffalo jerky.
...(me pulling out the notebook, quietly laughing)...
Scott: Oh, come on. Don't write that down.

Sure thing, Scott.

1:00 p.m.: Meet my grandparents and go on a drive around the area to show Scott all the mines, the fish hatchery, and other points of interest that I have seen 2,034 times.

(Side Note: At the fish hatchery, I dubiously tried to grab fish with my bare hands from the growth tanks because of the simple fact that I am still a child. Upon the success of grabbing one I sent my girlfriend the following message. I will leave you as contextually in the dark as she was:

Me: I just grabbed a fish my bare hands.
Jess: Ew.
Me: Now my hand is cold and there are donkies.
...(No response)...

I could explain that, but I just think it's funnier this way.

6:23 p.m.: We've had a long day of catching up with the relatives. Always nice, and they decide to take us to Casa Blanca a Mexican joint up here in Leadville. That's all nice and all, but do you remember what I said about Leadville being a bit behind the times? Let's just say that this restaurant is literally one of those pre-made homes that can be transported anywhere in the back of a large truck. That may sound funny to you, but I am not surprised in the least. Welcome to Leadville, everybody.

Another disturbing feature about this is the prospect of eating Mexican in this town. Now granted there are plenty of Hispanic people in town from all the ski area workers, but it still sounds a bit fishy to me. In the twenty-four years I have been going to Leadville, I have never once eaten anything that remotely resembles Mexican food. Why start now? I am worried.

(Side Note: Whenever I am in a new place where the quality of the Mexican food is very questionable, I order chili rellenos. I figure that this is a pretty good litmus test as far as Mexican food is concerned. Think about it. Anyone can make a decent burrito or taco. Imagine all the burritos and tacos you have eaten that were so crappy, and yet tasted so good. I mean how hard is it to screw up a taco? Case in point: Jack in the Box.

Anyways, chili rellenos present a higher degree of difficulty for the chef to make. If Chef Carlos downs a bit too much hornitos on the job, there is a good chance your rellenos will reflect this while the burritos would taste the same as always. I'm sure of this. Another reason is that I cannot even envison what eating a bad burrito would be like, can you? For example, I can realistically imagine someone saying the following: "These chili rellenos taste terrible," while I cannot conceive of any situation where the same would be said of a burrito. Try it. You know what I am talking about now, don't you? That would never happen with a burrito. Never.)

6:30 p.m.: My uncle challenges me to eat both the rellenos and a meat and cheese-filled sopapilla the size of a plate. I accept.

6:45: p.m.: Eating food when Scott accidentally chokes on some water and ends up spitting it all over me at the middle of the table. I try to save him some embarrassment when he apologizes by dropping the, "No, its ok. Really. That's what brothers-in-law do. They spit on each other." Damage control effective.

7:05 p.m.: Finished! I win the challenge, but somehow can't shake the feeling that there are no real winners in this contest.

10:00 p.m.: I was right, there are no winners, only victims.

10:35 p.m.: We head to the local saloon, and I do mean "saloon." It's a bar called The Silver Dollar and it's been around since 1879. Really cool place. The floors and the main bar are all the originals from the Old West. It makes you feel like you've traveled back in time, except for the fact that a terrible local band is butchering a Johnny Cash song in the background.

11:00 p.m.: I feel "pretty" in this bar. From the looks of the others, I am sensing that this is a bad thing.

12:00 p.m.: High altitude and beer don't mix as well as I thought they would. We stumble home only for me to call my girlfriend and have some variation of this conversation five times in a period of a forty minute phone call:

Me: What did you do tonight?
Jess: I cleaned my apartment all day long. I'm still cleaning. It looks great.
Me: (Silence)
Jess: Then I worked on catching up on some assignments.
Me: (Silence)
Jess: Ohh, and I got a manicure. You know, one day I'm gonna take you with me and make you get a manicure too.
Me: (Silence)
Jess: Brian, are you awake?
Me: (Waking, confused...) What? No seriously, what did you do today?

There is only so many times you can have this conversation before the better half of the two of you decides its about time to just let the other one go to bed.

SUNDAY
9:00 a.m.: Ugh.

11:00 a.m.: Unbeknownst to me, I am supposed to go to the Mining Museum with everyone, I find this out three minutes before we are supposed to leave.

11:15 a.m.: (Looking through museum) Huh. These metal samples from the mines are interesting.

11:45 a.m.: (Still looking) Wow, a room that actually contains old dynamite that was used in the mines. I am actually kind of interested at this point.

11:55 a.m.: (Still looking) Hey, a diorama room. Ok, this is kind of lame.

(Completely random note that may or may not have some future consequence: There is a display of old pipes used in the mining shaft that got me thinking about the terrible plumbing in my grandparents house, and the possibilities of doing what me and some buddies used to call "getting torpedoed." If you don't have any idea what I am talking about let me explain a bit. How do I put this nicely? The plumbing in my grandparents' house is a bit old. That is, none of the pipes can handle much in terms of any build up of large masses. In other words, they clog often. Much of the time, these build-ups are not easily identifiable. In fact, more often than not, one cannot tell that the pipes are jammed, unless that person who did the jamming notices it, if you catch my drift. So theoretically speaking, one could accidentally cause a build up in these pipes in some manner, but rather than face the embarrassment such a thing brings, they could abandon their proverbial "sinking ship" and leave blame for the next person--sinking that person, instead of themselves, with their torpedo. I hope you followed that. Don't think less of me.)

4:15 p.m.: My brother-in-law, Scott, has now officially been torpedoed. Come on, like you didn't see this coming?

4:30 p.m.: Awkward moment at dinner when my grandfather asks my brother-in-law about an Austrian dish called "ginglefe" that our family has made for years. It went down like this:

Grandpa: Scott, its too bad that we didn't make any ginglefe for you guys. You would have loved it.
Scott: No, I've had it. Erin's mom made some of it a few moths ago for dinner.
Grandma: Oh, you've had it? What did you think? Good, huh?
Scott: (Voice getting extremely high and off-pitch) Weeeeeellll, It's...it's...good. Yeah, I liked it. I mean, it could use some more spices, but it's ok.
...(me and my sister exchange nervous glances)...
...(DEAD SILENCE)...

It's a good thing the wedding a has already taken place or he might have been shown the door. Looking back, this hasn't been the best afternoon for Scott.

8:11 p.m.: Stuck watching Lifetime with my grandparents. I swear there is not a more pointless network in the world. I would rather watch video of people clipping their toenails than watch this. The shows are terrible, and the actors are worse. And for some reason every program on the network seems to have been filmed in that blurry kind of film used for flashbacks. It's like watching a Saved by the Bell fantasy seqence, but for the entire show. I can't figure out if watching this makes me want to saw my own hands off or if it makes me want to poop nails? Thoughts?

8:15 p.m.: The show we are watching has a priest in it, only he is being played by the guy who played the large, crazy, steroid-user, Guard Dog, from the mini series Playmakers. I cannot make this transition. This is just unacceptable casting. Can we go to the bar yet, or do we have to wait for grandma and grandpa to fall asleep?

9:00 p.m.: We escape to the bar. My uncle is waiting on us with beers in hand. Greatness.

9:15 p.m.: Some 50 year old lady buys me a drink because I am "cute." She then goes back to her angry looking husband. I think I should stay out of this.

9:30 p.m.: My uncle buys a round.

9:45 p.m.: Scott buys a round.

10:00 p.m.: I buy a round.

10:15 p.m.: My uncle buys two rounds, one being shots. I say, "Kenny, no more after this."

10:20 p.m.: Bathroom. This altitude makes getting drunk too easy; cut me off. I can't do this anymore.

10:22 p.m.: I don't even question the full beer that's been placed in front of me. Just drink it and smile.

10:35: p.m.: Scott says something along the lines of "We need to hang out more often. Let's get some shots!" I agree to both.

11:00 p.m.: I swear I just emptied my last beer. How did it get filled up again?

11:25 p.m.: "And then I'm gonna...And then I'm gonna go to law...to law school. Wait, no. Hey Scoot....wait, I said "Scoot." Wait, no....We need to do another one of those crawfish...cooking things. I could eat a TON of those little bastards right now. Hey, I think I owe you a round of beer. Should we get another round or is that too much? I can't tell anymore. Fuck it, lets do it!"

11:27 p.m.: Me: "Wait, everyone raise your drinks. I have something to say. I wanna give a toast. Are you ready? 'To Fish!'"
Everybody: "To Fish!"

11:30-12:30 p.m.: Lots more drinks. Someone decides that it would be good idea to walk up 5th street to go see the stars. The cool thing about this is that there are almost no lights in the mountain sky so you can see everything in the sky. There are more stars there than I have ever seen in my life. It’s absolutely worth trying at least once. The only problem is that we are drunk and dressed very lightly. The thermometer on the bank said 42 degrees; only it was really 28 degrees. Not fun times.

12:30 p.m.: Talk to my girlfriend. Same results as the previous night. You'd think I'd get it by now.

MONDAY
8:00 a.m.: Agh.

8:30 a.m.: Ugh.

9:00 a.m.: Oh, my head.

9:30 a.m.: The official line out of Vegas is that both Scott and me are listed as "Questionable" for today's flight home. While my sister is listed as "Probable." This will be a long day.

10:00 a.m.: All three of us are feeling this. Even my uncle woke up this morning and was supposed to be at work twenty minutes ago. Bad times all around. I search the cabinets for aspirin. No dice. Instead, we sit at the breakfast table and attempt to not look hung over, but its difficult when your feel like someone took an eighteen-wheeler to the side of your head the night before.

10:15 a.m.: I eat a bagel and come up with an ingenious plan. Think of this: there has to be some aspirin in the house. There has to be. Someone just needs to ask for it. The catch is that not everyone can ask for aspirin or else my grandparents will realize that we are all hung over and they might assume us to be 'disgraces to the family.' It was in our best interest not to let them know we all were laundry basket wasted last night. Just trust me on this one. If only one person can ask for it, only one of us will get it. I realize that sooner or later someone else will figure this out. I make my move. Success. Grandma gets me the Tylenol. Soon my headache will be gone. I think I should also note that I am now getting some awful looks from both Erin and Scott. Suckers.

2:20 p.m.: We get to the Denver airport and the lines are out of control. Luckily, this gives me time to notice the display that shows all the banned items that will get you thrown in Guantanamo Bay prison if you happen to have any of them with you. The strangest things that are actually in the glass case: a bag of fertilizer and a fricking grenade! Really? We can't take grenades on board? Shouldn't that just be understood? Isn't that why terrorists use box cutters and homemade bombs to begin with? Because they can't get pre-made weapons on board in the first place? Isn't that why I have to throw away the half-full Coke I just bought outside the security gate? I honestly don't think anyone is going around making plans to blow up a plane and saying, "Damn, this whole 'bomb-in-the-shoe' thing is a bit difficult to get working. Wait, why don't we just use grenades? Why didn't we think of this before? It's so clear now. Quick, contact the military! We need to get some grenades now!" as they run off excited about their imaginative new idea. And why does the airline have a real grenade in here anyways? Isn't that like telling a dog not to eat some steak you've been slaving over all day and then tossing it in front of him on the floor? I will never understand any of this.

Not to get too deep into this, but another thing that unnerves me is the fact that each airport has different varying degrees of how tough security is. Shouldn't this be universal? How can I get checked in one place, but not another? Is the FAA trying to tell me that one city is more dangerous than another? And if so, why is flying out of Denver seemingly so much more dangerous that flying out of Dallas? Is there a list that ranks this? Because I need to see it. No, The People need to see it. We need the truth!

2:20 p.m.: Check my bag, but before I go the lady says, "Have a nice flight." Having a temporary loss in rational brain function, I say "You too!" back to her. I hate myself.

2:29 p.m.: There is a little known life formula that I am getting a lesson in right now:

(Old man in front of you who doesn't speak loud enough or hear well + Chinese food place + Operated by Eastern Europeans = Gonna take a long time)

2:50 p.m.: DIA Airport looks like a circus tent. Instead of a large complex with normal, human compatible ceilings, they made a giant white tent that protrudes up and down in an effort to make the airport look like the mountains, but they seemed to have missed the point.

4:00 p.m.: Just ran into a few people I know on the flight. One is a guy from SMU whose name escapes me, while the other is some lady who sat remotely close to me on the flight to Denver. I make small talk to the guy, but only give an acknowledging nod to the lady. She understands. On second thought, If I don't know her well enough to say anything then I can't count her as a full person. That brings the total down to 1 1/2 familiar faces with us on the plane.

This reason I bring this up is that I never, and I mean never, see people that I know when I fly. This just doesn't happen to me. You know how some people have never caught a foul ball at a baseball game? Well this was my foul ball until this flight. And, yes I am making a bigger deal out of this than I probably should.

5:45 p.m.: Just overheard the girl behind me say that she's from my alma mater, SMU. With me not really knowing who she is, but going to the same school as her, that raises our total of known strangers on the flight to 2, as she also only counts as 1/2 of a person too. Sorry, my rules are strict, but they are there for a reason.

On the bright side, if I keep eaves dropping long enough, I might feel like I know her enough for me to raise her to a whole person by the end of the flight. So fear not young lady, you have something to strive for.

(Side Note: I think this is a good time to mention that pilot thinks he's Tom Cruise in Top Gun. This guy is darting all around for no reason. I mean I can see the map; we're headed for Texas. Stop aiming for clouds, hot shot. He is one more unnecessary swerve from making me pump my fist and start yelling, "GODDAMMIT, MAVERICK!"

Also, I am refusing to close the shutter on my window even though the sun in beaming in on my neck making me possibly the first person to get sunburn while on a plane. Just thought it was worth mentioning.)

5:47 p.m.: That chick behind me won't shut up about how great she is. It's like listening to the female version of Mike Vanderjagt. I don't think I want to know her anymore. And just like that we're back down to 1 1/2.

6:20 p.m.: Just realized that the annoying girl that I no longer know has been talking to an older man traveling with his wife, only he is sitting on the aisle while his wife is sitting between him and the annoying girl. This has created the hilarious, but socially awkward situation of forcing the older gentleman to talk past his wife to the younger, college-aged girl. Let me just say this, his wife's face is priceless right now. There is no way you could convince me that he won't be punished for this someway. She is looking straight ahead and making one of those Hillary Clinton "I can't believe you are doing this to me in public, I will never touch you again" faces that we saw so much of in the late 1990's. Just classic. I wish I had noticed this earlier.

6:35 p.m.: Not two seconds ago I noticed that the six men sitting in the row in front of me all had large, bushy mustaches. What year do you think it was the last time this happened? I'm guessing 1977.

6:50 p.m.: I had a moment of sheer realization. I have been carrying a notebook, a book (conveniently titled Now I can Die in Peace), small newspaper cut outs, and dozens of little sticky notes written to myself; all of them tucked nicely into a clear plastic zip lock bag (I didn't have any other way to carry it). Add to this that I every time I think of an idea, I pull out the notebook and write something in it while I try to hide what I am writing from the other passengers. Basically, what I am trying to say is that I am not entirely sure what a serial killer looks like, but I am pretty sure that I am a dead-ringer for one right now.

Also, my shirt has some airplanes and a small skull and cross bones on it. Didn't think about that this morning.

7:00 p.m.: Landed. We're back in Dallas. It's been a fun weekend, but I am ready to get home, but not before the stewardess comes on the PA to announce our landing. Almost as if she wanted to give me one last thing to write, she says, "We at Frontier Airlines would like to be the first ones to welcome you to...
...(long, long pause)...
...Dallas!
Frontier Airlines, gotta love it!

Rocky Mountain High

As many of you know, I spent this weekend in the high country of Colorado. The mission of this trip was for me, my sister, and my brother-in-law to see some people in Denver and then to travel up to the small town of Leadville to see our grandparents and other relatives that were unable to make it to my sister's wedding a few months ago for whatever reason. Now to give you a quick background, Leadville is a tiny little town tucked away about two hours west from Denver in the mountains. Consequently, this town is isolated from a great deal of new technologies and advances in modern life such as, department stores, the Internet, acceptable clothing styles, and to some extent, racial equality. Besides all that, the town is a great place to visit and has a number of things to do in the summer such as climbing mountains, kayaking, fishing, and any other number of outdoors things that you can do. The only problem with this? You are literally two miles above sea level so just trying to tie your shoes while chewing a stick of gum can leave you feeling like Tara Reid after a long night of vodka, cigarettes, and a few irreconcilable gaps in memory. The point is that there is much to do, but there is also little to do.

So where am I going with this? I decided that during this trip I was going to do something for you, the readers. What is it that I did? I ripped off and idea from my favorite writer, Bill Simmons, and kept a running diary of the entire thing. So sit back and enjoy a wild ride to the top of the Rockies...

FRIDAY AFTERNOON
3:15 p.m.: At the airport with nothing to do. These new security measures seem to have done nothing. The only difference I notice is that I have to put my bathroom products (gay sounding?) in my suitcase and check it rather than fly carry-on. Oh yeah, that and the fact that I had to get here two and half hours early. This sucks. Let's get sloshed.

3:45 p.m.: DFW airport is filled with beautiful people today. It looks like a club scene from Miami Vice. No joke. Everyone is dressed nice, talking on their cell phones or flirting with each other. There is, however, a small section of average Joes that seem to be left out of the loop. Also, nobody seems interested in talking to me. It's like a game of beautiful person Duck, Duck Goose, only I'm not even getting the courtesy of a head tap. Not that I care. I'm just saying.

4:15 p.m.: Boarding the flight, only I don't see the seat numbers. How can you have assigned seats without displaying where the seat is? I'm freaking out. Where is 22F?!?! Oh, whoops, there they are. I'm just too tall to see them. Now I have to travel back through the flow of people heading onto the airplane and to their seats as I sheepishly apologize to the entire plane. Now I know what a salmon feels like.

4:21 p.m.: We have TV on the plane! And I don't mean a few large screens from the ceiling. I mean direct TV on a screen twelve inches from my face. Jackpot. How long has this been going on? Why wasn't I notified? If I had known that every time I flew I could watch PTI on ESPN as I drifted in and out of sleep in a "I drank way to much at the airport bar" haze, I would have way more excuses to fly. In fact, I brought a book to read, but I think that that idea has been officially put to rest. Oh well, nice try. Technology wins again.

4:51 p.m.: Derailed! Turns out that it costs five bucks to continue watching TV on the plane. Forget that, out comes the reading material. No way I'm paying to watch TV for an hour and forty-five minutes. I'm starting to get a little peeved about this whole thing, but luckily that final pint of beer from the cheesy, Texas-themed sports bar is starting to get the best of me. I might not last much longer.

4:52 p.m.: (Reading) words look like this.

4:53 p.m.: (Reading) word slook lik ethis.

4:54 p.m.: (Reading) wordslooklikethis.

4:55 p.m.: (Reading) worgdkslooikslitehes.

4:56 p.m.: (Drunk) Sleep.

5:45 p.m.: I wake up to hear that they are about to start serving drinks. This is good news because my throat is feeling dryer than a comedy show featuring Janeane Garofalo. ZING! Oh yeah, I've only been awake a minute, but I got jokes. On second thought, maybe I should go back to sleep.

5:50 p.m.: I order a Coke, but make the mistake of not specifying that I need the entire can. So instead of a tall tasty beverage I am staring blankly a shot-glass-worth of soda. This cannot be stood for. I ask for the entire can only to have the flight attendant, who looks like she plays Bunko with my mother and her book club friends, shake the empty can in front of me like it was a cat toy and give me a disapproving head nod. Frontier Airlines, gotta love it.

(Side Note: Shouldn't there be a rule about old ladies being nice to everyone? I mean I always grew up with the idea that old ladies lived only to make you grilled cheese sandwiches on request and give you gum drops when you behaved. Maybe my grandma raised the bar a bit too high for everyone else. Either way, I am NOT cool with sarcastic older ladies, especially on plane flights. If we no longer have younger stewardesses, then I better feel comfortable enough to ask these older ones to help me tie my shoes and randomly receive brownies from them in the mail. Getting atrocious looking sweaters and cards with checks for thirteen dollars will be our next step. Ok, I'm rambling...)

5:51 p.m.: Polished off my drink. I am secretly hoping the flight attendant's soul returns to her body and she'll bring me the rest of my Coke. No, I'm not obsessing.

6:00 p.m.: Not sure what this means, but my napkin from Frontier Airlines illustrates the available destinations you can fly from through the use of a small map of the United States. Strange thing is that from what I gather, you can only go to and from Denver to a select number of cities. That is, you can't go from Phoenix to San Diego, but you can go from Denver to either of them and vice-versa. Strange. Even stranger, there are seven exceptions to this: Kansas City, Salt Lake City, Nashville, St. Louis, and inexplicably Cancun, Cozumel, and Puerto Vallarta. Is this really the best business strategy? Who are they focusing on as their target travelers? It's as if someone in Denver was like, "Ok, we need start an airline, but try not to make a profit. If we're gonna do this, we need to stick to our values: Travel where us Coloradoans want to go and nowhere else?" I swear if they threw South Padre Island in there, they would have an airtight grasp on the elusive "Denver Broncos fan and Spring Breaker" demographic. I'm not going to try to understand this anymore.

6:05 p.m.: Redemption! My former nemesis, the deceivingly friendly looking stewardess, returns with a new drink along with a full can to go along with it. Bonus points for the can having a giant Denver Broncos logo on it. Frontier Airlines, gotta love it.

6:19 p.m.: I've had it with these motherfucking snakes on this motherfucking plane! Sorry, I had to do it.

6:21: p.m.: TONS of turbulence. I mean drink rattling, grab your seat and start praying turbulence. You know what I am talking about. The kind of shaking that ends with a long exhalation of breath only to find yourself clutching the arm rests like you’re the blown away guy from the Maxwell ads, like this.

This got me wondering, why does everyone react to turbulence the same way? No one really looks at each other; they just look around the interior of the plane --specifically the ceiling-- and out the window. It's as if everyone suddenly has a degree in aviation engineering and is looking for some issue that may have taken place with the plane. Once our curious minds have been reassured that our talents for fixing mid-air engine and flap mishaps are not needed, we settle back in our seats and act like nothing happened. Somehow no one reacts and we all pretend that we didn't just drop one hundred feet. I have never understood this. Why act like we are not scared when nearly everyone, except the drunk guy in the back and the lady on the way to stab her cheating husband, are absolutely losing their minds over the thought of crashing to the ground? We shouldn't hold in our emotions. Why can't we all just agree to scream? Will we ever know?

6:23 p.m.: Forgot to mention that something is rattling very audibly on the plane. This is not a good sound on an airplane. I repeat: This is NOT a good sound on an airplane. No sound=Good. Rattling=Bad. Frontier Airlines, gotta love it.

5:57 p.m.: No, we have not traveled back in time as some of you might be thinking by the time stamp on this entry. We have crossed into Mountain Time, throwing us back an hour. How about that? I gave you a whole extra hour of my life? And with it, I give you this nugget of truth:
I was wrong earlier when I said we no longer had TV on the plane. We have three channels to choose from. Its like we have been cut off at a bar after throwing back a potent combination of beer, rum, beer, and a lot more rum in less than an hour; and consequently, now having our choice of water, Sprite, Ginger Ale or nothing at all. The only ones still drinking are the ones who have the "in" with the bar tender. Or in this case, aren't so cheap that they will swipe their credit cards for five dollars to get sixty more channels that I refuse to pay for. Yes, I am unreasonably bitter. Anyways, the channel line up now goes like this:

1). The channel with the evoloving map of where our plane is flying at that exact moment. Only problem with this is that the plane is such a large icon on the screen that it stretches from Dallas to just south of Denver. From the looks of it, I could walk the entire length of the trip and never leave the plane. So that is one problem. The other is that it is boring. Sorry, Mapquest, the truth hurts.

2). The Generic Airline Channel is our second option. In the past ten minutes it has touted some Christian rocker immediately followed by a feature about the USA ski team's Spyder uniforms. I'm nodding off just writing about it. Time to move on.

3). A channel just displaying Frontier's logo and their slogan "A Whole Different Animal," which I have stared at for forty minutes and still can't figure out. I get that each plane has an animal on it. I get that. What I don't get is what this has to do with flying. I mean we have a lynx or something on our plane. I would understand if it were a bird, but a small feral cat? I'm confused. This would be the equivalent of J.C. Penny plastering pictures of Teen Wolf all over their stores and using the tagline, "J.C. Penny is Oooooouut of Sight." Makes just as much sense to me. I think I need another drink.

6:07p.m.: Denver! We're here, and not a second too soon. The lady next to me had a "why does this guy next to me keep pulling out a notebook and scribble something in it every five minutes?" look on her face, she and was acting a little too antsy for me. I think it’s best if her and me don't see each other for a while.

I think it all went down hill when her and I had the following conversation:

Her: "What are you writing about in your notebook there? Are you reviewing a book?"
Me: "No, this might sound strange, but I am writing about all the stuff the passengers are doing and junk like that."
Her: (surprised) "Why?"
Me: "I'm not entirely sure."
...(long silence)...
Her: "Are you going to write about me now?"
Me: "I think so. Anything special you want me say?"
Her: (Looking at her husband then back at me, a bit disturbed now) "Just make it nice."

I didn't say another word to her until we landed and she asked why she couldn't see the Rocky Mountains? Rather than explain the intricacies of cloudy weather and its affects on vision, I went with the line from Dumb and Dumber and said, "Yeah that John Denver is full of bullshit, man." She didn't laugh. I think it’s best if I sit the next few plays out.

(Side Note: I had to be very discreet writing that. She was watching me like I was a lost fourth grader walking past a NAMBLA convention. Just eerie. I think I should also mention that she is clutching her husband's hand right now. There's a lesson here.)

6:11 p.m.: Just thinking about time zones. Does anyone else not switch his or her watches in a new time zone, like I do? To me it's kind of like cheating on your time zone (stay with me, here). Just because you are on vacation doesn't mean that your Central Time Zone or Eastern Time Zone, or heaven forbid sweet Pacific Time Zone, isn't waiting for you back at home, tapping its foot and worrying about you. If you ask me I'd say that when you move into a time zone, you're married to it until you move out. I'm babbling its been a long day, never mind.

6:12 p.m.: Screw it; I'm changing back to Central Time.

7:12 p.m.: That's better.

7:30 p.m.: Remember how I said that DFW was a game of Beautiful Person Duck Duck Goose? Well, If there's a game like that being played here in Denver International, I don't want to be a part of it.

7:42 p.m.: In the ground transportation bus when my brother-in-law mentions something about how great it is to have XM Radio after hearing it being played from the bus PA system. Almost on cue, Cher's "Do You Believe in Life After Love?" song comes on. We all exchange frowns, but say nothing.

7:45 p.m.: The bus driver comes on the PA and sounds eerily like the German-fetish guy from Super Troopers. I keep expecting him to pull out a pink feather boa and try to start tickling me.
Also, people are starting to give me weird looks as I am writing in this notebook. I'm only a few minutes into Denver and I'm officially "That Weird Guy on the Bus." Damn.

7:47 p.m.: (Singing to myself) ..and maybe I'm too good for you, oh! Do you believe in life after love? (after love, after love)...I can feel something inside me say, I really dont think you're strong enough, no. Damn you, Cher! I hate this song.

7:50 p.m.: We leave the rental car joint and head out to the hotel. The great thing about Denver is that if you are lost all you have to do is find the mountains, and you'll know where west is. Even the most directionally challenged girl could do it. Unless you actually go into the mountains, then they are useless. Just keep that in mind the next time you are in Denver.

8:17 p.m.: We are lost. We are IN the mountains and we are lost. Somehow we shot past the city and ended up in the mountains near a heard of buffalo and the tombstone of Buffalo Bill Cody. I swear that this actually happened right after I wrote that last entry. You couldn't make up a more ironic turn of events. Add in the fact that we are hungry, cranky, and its foggy now. Welcome to Denver everybody. Two more days to go!


This was Part I of the coulmn. I will be back with Part II as soon as possible.

TPC

If you find yourself looking for something more from The Shitter, venture your way to the now functional "soon-to-be Sports Hot Spot," Two Point Conversion. This begs the question, are Viddy and Luke sports nerds or internet moguls? You decide.

Idiot Kicker

Before I get to it, I must say that this column is very, very rushed. I have only a few minutes left before I head to the airport for a glorious weekend in Colorado. So forgive me for the lower than normal quality. Also, Luke should be getting some stuff up on Two Point Conversion soon, so check that out. (And while I am at it, Luke, you need to post the stuff on TPC. Thanks, dude.) Now that everything is in its place, lets get rolling...

Mike Vanderjagt is terrible, plain and simple. He missed two easy field goals last night in the Cowboys game. You have to think that his miss from the Pittsburgh game is still in his head. Anyways, the good people of Dallas have learned that this guy is possibly the cockiest man to ever walk the face of the Earth. His post-game interview stated that he "he could hit those two kicks in his sleep." Oh yeah, why didn't you then? To get a good perspective of just how ridiculous this guy is read this article about him. Is there anyway that he could possibly get any more annoying? Is he missing the point about life? He seems so on the surface about everything. It’s pretty bad even for an athlete. I swear, there are shallow people and then there is Mike Vanderjagt.

Besides just reading it for yourself and listening to his moronic ramblings about how good he is and his "mind boggling stats" he says a number of things that make me want to shove bamboo under my fingers. I would spend an entire 2,000 word column on this, but my deadline is looming. In the interest of time here are some quick hits:

--Talks about his intimidating presence and athletic ability. It seems he forgot that he is a kicker.

--Has a dumb tattoo with a Nike swoosh, but has "Mike" instead of "Nike." A corporate tattoo with your own name juxtaposed on it? Really? Just writing this is making me mad as hell. I need to stop soon.

--Says his son will have to deal with a lot of jealous friends because he is so much more blessed than everyone else.

--I couldn't find a way to describe this next quote so I will just post it up here in its entirety:

On how he got his nickname 'Hollywood': "I just think a couple of the guys thought I had the "Hollywood" looks: I had the longer, curly blond hair, blue-eyed, tall...just the typical "Brad Pitt" look I guess, for lack of a better guy. I had it in college too. It's kind of funny that a group of people who had no connection whatsoever told me the same thing. So it must have had some truth to it"

For lack of a better guy, Brad Pitt???? Are you kidding me??? "There must be some truth to it."I'm sorry, but who does this guy think he is? I haven't seen anyone over-estimate their own qualities so absurdly since Ron Burgundy's character in Anchorman. In fact, I wouldn't be surprised if Vanderjagt refers to himself and his kicking leg as separate entities. Writing about him literally makes me want to stick a letter opener in my eye. Is it ok, to root for a team to win all of its games, but hope the kicker misses every field goal he tries? Basically, what I am trying to say is, Mike Vanderjagt, I hate you.

P.S. Check out wonder boy, himself, right here in his most shining moment:



Good ole RT: Ryan sent me this the other day:

So any idea where I can get about 200 cups of Lemon Chill?

I honestly didn't know what to say, but I knew if I asked questions it would only ruin every one of the imaginary scenarios that was running through my head as to why he would ask me this. Some times things are better left unanswered.

And just when I thought he couldn't be any more random: Ryan sends me this e mail today:

I'm working on this spreadsheet trying to decipher the genders of the people on the list, male or female. But what the hell am I supposed to do with a name like "Chin-Jung Wu?" anybody...? Anybody? I'm all about the heritage but come on man, what the hell am I supposed to do with that?

Your guess is as good as mine. Mark it "NA" and move on.

Have a great weekend.